Page 23

She lowered the branch and maneuvered it beneath the spreading oak, propping it against the thick trunk before standing directly beneath the lowest branch.

The fact that said branch extended east—a good foot above her head—did not appear to daunt her in the least. She tossed her cloak over her shoulders and reached up, gauging the distance.

“Er—hold on there.” Locryn stepped forward. “Perhaps I can be of service?”

Startled, she whirled, her hand to her throat and her eyes gone wide in alarm.

He continued forward. She held her ground. Her eyes narrowed, searching his face—and then she relaxed. Her hand fell away and a bright, sparkling smile spread across her face.

“Oh, you gave me a fright! But it’s Lord Locryn, is it not?”

He nodded and stopped. He had to. He’d rush her if he didn’t—the urge came from nowhere. Too close, too fast. He held himself in check.

“Only today I was wondering if you would attend the wedding—and here you are, as if I’d conjured you!”

She’d conjured something. That smile, the welcome in her dark, fathomless eyes—she called forth a burst of light in his chest, an ache beneath his ribs.

Her smile faltered. “Oh. Perhaps you will not recall. We met once, long ago—”

“I remember,” he said hoarsely. “Miss Gwyn. But it is Lady Gwyn now, is it not?”

She’d changed. Grown up. No longer a shy, young girl, she stood a young woman at ease, all pleasing curves and charming confidence.

And just like that, he was changed too. His outlook, his needs, his—

Abruptly, panic set in. A great, overwhelming anxiety—the fear thatnothinghad changed.

He cut it off. Breathed deeply. “You are collecting mistletoe? May I help?”

Her smile returned. “That would be lovely!” She gestured toward the branch. “You have a definite advantage over me in height. Perhaps you will take up my lance and act as my knight?”

He couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve had no formal training, but I’ll do my best.”

Taking up the branch, he found he could reach the mistletoe with the end, but push, pull or prod, he could not convince the vine to detach.

Eventually he tossed the pole and wiped his hands on his trousers. “As you said, there’s nothing else for it.” He grabbed the overhead branch and levered himself up.

“Oh, do be careful!” I hadn’t meant for you to go to such extremes!”

He glanced down at her flushed, admiring face. “You were prepared to make the climb—how could I do less?” He patted the trunk as he moved higher. “You were right earlier, this is a remarkably healthy tree.” He paused and looked under his arm. “But how on earth do you know about black fungus and twig blight? Have you made a study of botany?”

He could see her blush from here. “No, no.” She waved a hand. “I merely enjoy gardening. With more enthusiasm than is seemly, my mother insists.”

Locryn reached the batch of mistletoe. “There cannot exist too much enthusiasm for gardening, not in my opinion,” he called. With his knife he cut off of a long, sturdy stem and rolled it gently around his arm. “How much do you need?”

“A couple of good long strands, if you can get them.”

“Done!” A thought struck him and he braced himself before pulling out his field glass. He could see for miles up here, across Lancarrow, over the nearby woods and even on to Castle Keyvnor. He scanned the scene.

“Looking for something, sir?”

“Do you know what a Cornish chough is?”

“The bird?”

“Yes, the bird. The crow that is featured on Cornwall’s coat of arms, the one with the red bill and legs. It is native to Britain’s coasts, but their numbers have been decreasing, especially in Cornwall.”

“How sad.”